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In a calm neighborhood of the Irish capital, a man is standing in his driveway, dressed in a sleeveless jumper and expressing his thoughts. “I feel I'm becoming more silent. Harder to see,” remarks Leonard, gazing up at the night sky. “Circumstances have evolved and at this point it seems without a change, I’ll just carry on in this minor, harmless existence.” His friend Paul, his closest companion, ponders this statement. “That's perfectly fine,” he responds, his robe swaying gently. “Preferable to trying to make a mark and causing harm instead.”

For anyone weary by the bluster and constant stimulation of modern television offerings, Leonard and Hungry Paul arrives like a cozy wrap and a comforting beverage of blackcurrant juice.

Similar to its gentle leads, this comedy – a half-dozen installment program created by Richie Conroy and Mark Hodkinson, adapted from Rónán Hession’s subtle story – takes a dim view at modern life; looking critically above its eyewear on everything that involves loud sounds, quick actions or – perish the thought – excessive aspiration. This show rather, a tribute to quiet people; a gentle tribute of those happy to amble along away from attention. And yet. He (a further distinctly original performance from Alex Lawther) feels restless. He feels a creeping “need to open the openings of my life … slightly.” The loss of his beloved mother has yanked the floor away from his feet and Leonard, an anonymous author, now realizes doubting the paths that have brought him to this point (alone; sporting facial hair; working on a range of kids' reference books for an employer who concludes emails saying “goodbye for now”).

Thus Leonard starts an exploration for emotional fulfilment, alongside his more outgoing friend Paul (the performer) functioning as his confidante, mentor and ally in a weekly board games evening that serves both as discussion (“Is the water heated due to children urinating, or do children urinate because it’s warm?”) and refuge.

(What's the origin of "Hungry" Paul? No idea. The source of this name appears lost in history. Perhaps the postal worker once ate some food in record time, or responded to an awkward situation by nervously peeling four scotch eggs with his teeth).

Entering Leonard's quiet life cartwheels Shelley (the actress), a recent lively co-worker who lightheartedly proposes to get rid of Leonard’s appalling boss (Paul Reid) at a fire practice. The rushing noise audible is Leonard’s gentle world undergoing a shake-up.

In other scenes during the opening installment of the comedy driven less by plot and centered around what the under-30s might call “vibes”, we are introduced to the older generation (the consistently great the performer), a tired character who privately views, tapes and rewatches daytime quiz shows to impress his adoring wife with his general knowledge.

Shepherding us amidst this minor-key niceness is a narrator who closely resembles – and truly is – the famous actress. Yes, Julia Roberts. In case you're considering, “surely the use of a big-name celebrity is at odds with the show's modest approach and starts off as just an interruption?” that's accurate. Still, the actress performs admirably, and phrases like “The issue with Leonard is that he lacks a ‘eureka’ face” help ensure that early misgivings fade if not full admiration, then at minimum tolerance.

No more criticism at this time. The show's core is in the right place: which is “sitting on a park bench next to the Detectorists, indicating the duck it loves.” It’s a series that strolls leisurely in comfortable attire, at times staring at the stars, at other times looking at its feet, quietly confident that no experience is on Earth as cheering as passing time with good friends.

Open the doors and windows of your life, a little, and allow it entry.